The extra year of fighting to it's toll,
Counted it's changed, from that created toll booths
Certain quarrels have become unproductive,
As the bent saucepan and broken window will attest
Some narratives grow stale,
Especially when problems aren't being solved or discussed rationally
A sinking feeling emerges from the depths of destruction,
Submerging those who are involved
Clearly walking around blind,
Yet feeling everything,
Though no sense is being made, only more change for the toll
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem